


The Cure to Growing Older

by Flames_and_Jade



Series: Only One For Me - Peterick OTP Prompts Repository [6]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Tree, Deep Thinking, Emotional Hurt, Finding your way back, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Hiatus-feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OTP Feels, True Love, otp prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade
Summary: He had wanted the space to find himself desperately, to figure out who he was. For what seemed like the majority of his adult life, he had felt like his name wasn’t just Patrick Stump, it was PatrickStumpandPeteWentz. They were like one person, one organism that made music and played shows and ate cereal and fell in love. But he had needed so badly to know if he could make it on his own, if he could be just Patrick Vaughn Stump, who loved synthesizers and soul music and didn’t hide behind hats and baggy jackets. And he couldn’t do any of that when they were PatrickStumpAndPeteWentz.Going back to the box, Patrick pulled the next ornament out and realized he was singing along with Ray Charles. Hanging the pipe-cleaner and popsicle stick sled up that he had made when he was seven, he looked at the picture of the two of them in the snow and sang, voice low and honest…“All I want for Christmas…is you…”





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this was just going to be a cute little one-shot that I started at like 3pm...6,253 words later, here we are! It's based off an OTP prompt that I'll put at the end (so nothing's given away), but I needed a bit of angst, a bit of hurt/comfort, and some Christmas...so here it is!!
> 
> As a timeline note, this isn't strictly cannon. It takes place during the FOB hiatus, but Ashlee and Meagan don't exist, and neither do any of Patrick's significant others.

 

* _Screeecchhhh—Thunk.*_

 

And with that, the tree was through the door. Patrick took a deep breath, feeling slightly proud that he wasn’t totally out of breath after the crazy battle it had taken to get the six-foot spruce up the walkway and into his apartment by himself. He reflected maybe it was good that he hadn’t taken the realtor up on the second floor studio. This was the first year he’d gotten a tree since moving into the space—he had been so busy the last few years with everything that he had just been grateful to get to sleep in his own bed a few times a week. But this year…he wasn’t sure what it was that made him go get a Christmas tree, but he had done it.

 

It took only a few minutes to get the tree into the stand and it filled with water and a bit of 7-up (his mom’s secret to keeping it alive longer). Opening the box labeled “X-MAS,” he began to pull out the ornaments and decorations—wrapping the bright gold garland around, starting from the bottom and working his way up. It took him two tries to get it even, but when he got it, it looked great. He strung the red beads around artfully between the garland, and then began to unwrap the ornaments from their protective casings of paper towels and empty grocery bags.

 

He smiled as he worked his way through them—a TMNT ornament his brother had gotten him, some cheesy little-kid art creations that he had made in preschool that his mother had been way too proud of, a miniature drum set his sister had given him last year. His mom, being the amazing woman she was, had made it a point to get each of her children an ornament each year. He had never really gotten it, it had just made their tree look like a Hallmark store had exploded. But when he left home and his mom had proudly presented him with a box of his very own ornaments—complete with jokes and laughter to accompany each one and fill the confines of his first apartment—he had finally understood. She had been building him memories to put on his first tree by himself. A reminder that he was never truly alone. Of course, he had called her nearly in tears to say thank you and tell her he finally got it, and he could hear the smile in her voice. 

 

About halfway through the box, spirits high and the peaceful strains of Ray Charles singing a soulful Christmas drifting through the space, he unwound the paper towel from around a lumpy ornament…and stopped. 

 

It was one of those cheesy ornaments that had space for a picture with a little “2008” imprinted just below it shaped like a gingerbread house. The faces from the photo smiled out at him, and Patrick was swept back in time…

 

 

_“I can’t believe you’re making me do this when there are perfectly good—and already dead—trees we could have bought at Home Depot.” Patrick groused as he trudged along behind Pete, who was flitting around the forest like a Christmas Grim Reaper, saw held tightly in one hand as he tried to find the “perfect” tree._

 

_Pete had been bugging him to get a tree for weeks now—Patrick had argued that if they got a tree the day after Thanksgiving like Pete wanted, it would be dead well before Christmas. Pete had groused and moped, until he had found something on the internet about trees you cut yourself staying alive twice as long. That had led to him bothering everyone they knew about where you could cut down one of your own, and someone (Marcus, probably) had told him that he knew a “secret place” that had the best trees. After that, Patrick knew it would just be a matter of time until they were trucking off to find this magical tree farm. It was all Marcus’s fault he was tromping through knee-high snow, following a blissful Pete to stand in front of The One._

 

_“This is it, ‘Trick! This one’s PERFECT.” Patrick had been surprised to see the tree was very nicely formed, and not 12 feet tall like he’d been afraid of Pete settling on. Lord knows they’d never get one that big into their apartment. But this tree was only a bit taller then they were, and it looked like every tree he’d ever seen on a greeting card. Pete was practically buzzing with excitement, throwing himself down in the snow and starting to saw away at the base. “Hold it for me, okay?”_

 

_Patrick had obligingly held the tree, ignoring how the needles dug into his face and poked his hands through his gloves, just glad to know they had a tree which meant they could go home to where it was warm soon. “How’s it coming down there?” Pete said something in response that was lost in the branches and Patrick shrugged mentally._

 

_“Got it, here it comes, hold on Patrick!” Pete had yammered excitedly, and somehow in his scramble to get out from under the tree, he swept a leg out and knocked Patrick down…and the tree followed him._

 

 _“GODDAMMIT PETE!!” Patrick yelled from under the tree, glaring as his boyfriend came into view. “You had to trip me_ and _let the tree fall on top of me!?”_

 

_Pete was doing his best to not laugh but quickly lost the battle, bursting into braying yelps as he looked at Patrick, fuming at him from under their perfect Christmas tree. He came over and started to pull the tree up, and Patrick groused under his breath…_

 

_And then Pete was squirming under the tree NEXT TO HIM._

 

_“What the fuck are you doing???” He groaned, and Pete grinned manically, scooting close and burrowing into Patrick’s side._

 

_“Can’t let you be under the tree alone. It clearly wanted some more time in the forest…so…we can’t not give it time to say goodbye.”_

 

_“Why does it have to say goodbye from on top of me?!”_

 

_“You’re the one who dropped it.” Pete nestled closer as he said it, despite Patrick trying to push aside branches to punch him._

 

_“YOU KNOCKED ME OVER and it FELL ON TOP OF ME you asshole!!”_

 

_“Details. Either way, we’re all together, so that’s all that counts. You and me and the tree.” Pete smiled at him, that heartbreakingly earnest smile that never failed to make Patrick’s heart do funny things. It was the smile that meant Pete was happy, he felt whole, the demons were tamped down and locked away…and it was because of him. Because there was this thing called PeteAndPatrick. He couldn’t stay mad when Pete looked at him that way, and Pete knew it. “I love you.” He murmured and pressed a kiss to Patrick’s cheek—warm and soft and sweet. Patrick reached for his hand, squeezing it through the layers of gloves so Pete knew he wasn’t mad and sighed._

 

_“I love you too, you weirdo.”_

 

_Pete rustled around under the tree and pulled out his phone, holding it up and saying “cheese.” Patrick had glared at the camera as Pete snapped a picture, causing the dark-skinned man to berate him when he saw it. A devious grin spread over his face, and he leaned close. “Do you want to fuck under here? Is that what you’d rather do than take a selfie? I could make you make all kinds of faces for the camera.”_

 

_Rolling his eyes, Patrick had shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”_

 

_“And you still stay with me…so you must love it. Now shut up and take a picture with me, please?” Patrick had rolled his eyes one more time but looked up at the phone, their faces looking back at them from the screen, and had given a bemused grin that held more the-things-I-do-for-my-boyfriend than it did hooray-we-have-a-tree, but Pete didn’t object as he snapped it._

 

_“Perfect! Okay, let’s go Lunchbox! My ass is starting to get wet!” Pete scrambled out from under the tree in a flurry of legs and knees in Patrick’s side, and then pulled the tree up so Patrick could get up too. Together, they dragged it back to the car, Pete singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of his lungs._

 

 

Patrick snapped back to the present—to his little apartment full of the distinct lack of anyone else—and he sighed down at the picture. Pete’s face smiled up at him with that overpowering, all-consuming grin that made his eyes crinkle at the edges, and his own face looked out with that mixture of chagrin, peace, and indulgence that had seemed to characterize their lives together. 

 

He rubbed his finger gently over Pete’s face, thinking back to the hollowness in his eyes when he had hugged him goodbye at the end of their tour after announcing they were going to go on hiatus. He remembered the catch in Pete’s voice when he had asked if _they_ were going to be on a break too…and he remembered the devastation on his face when Patrick had said _yes._ He had tried to explain, try to tell Pete that it wasn’t that he hated him, or that he had finally gotten to be too much…he just needed space, needed time to figure out all the things in his own head. But Pete hadn’t heard, Patrick could tell the explanations were just bouncing off him like hail on a windshield. He had simply nodded, pulled his hood up over his head, and curled up on the couch with his back to Patrick. 

 

It had been t _wo years_. Two years that Pete had blessedly, shockingly left him alone. They had seen each other out and about once or twice, and Pete’s eyes had lit up when he saw Patrick. But then he deflated and simply waved and turned away, shoulders a little lower then they had been moments before. Patrick hadn’t known what to do each time, so he had simply kept moving and let Pete go.

 

Pulling himself out of his reverie he stood and went to the tree. The ornament was surprisingly heavy, and he took care to find a sturdy branch to hang it on. Settling it over the pine needles, he stepped back, wondering if he should hang it somewhere less prominent…but shook his head. No, that was where it belonged, right in the middle of the tree. Pete was always in the middle of everything…that was one of the things he loved about him. 

 

 _Love_. Patrick hung his head, his fingers twitching as the urge to dig out his phone and call Pete rushed over him. They’d only been truly _dating_ for four months when Pete had said the words to him, but it hadn’t been weird, it had been…right. They had known each other for so long, it felt normal, it felt like it was exactly what was between them. Pete had whispered _I love you_ into his neck when he hugged him goodbye that last day nearly two years ago, and Patrick hadn’t said it back. He had thought at the time he was being kind and helping Pete to let go…but now he wasn’t so sure. 

 

He had wanted the space to find himself desperately, to figure out who he was. For what seemed like the majority of his adult life, he had felt like his name wasn’t just Patrick Stump, it was PatrickStumpandPeteWentz. They were like one person, one organism that made music and played shows and ate cereal and fell in love. But he had needed so badly to know if he could make it on his own, if he could be _just_ Patrick Vaughn Stump, who loved synthesizers and soul music and didn’t hide behind hats and baggy jackets. 

 

And he couldn’t do any of that when they were PatrickStumpAndPeteWentz.

 

Now… _Truant Wave_ was out and had been received very well. _Soul Punk_ would be coming out in a few months, and he honestly didn’t care if it only sold five copies—to his mom, his dad, his siblings, and himself. He had finally gotten out all that music that had been beating around inside his head and thumping through his chest, and he _loved_ it. It didn’t matter if nobody else did…it was out and he finally felt like he could breathe again. Maybe that meant there was space to be PatrickStumpAndPeteWentz again. 

 

He missed his best friend—he felt like his arm had been amputated and the ghost of it was still there throbbing and hurting. He still wanted to send Pete tracks he had made, he wanted to have his comforting weight pressed against him as he watched the He-Man reruns, he wanted to reach out and hold his hand while he was sitting in the eternal LA traffic. Who knew if Pete felt the same? Patrick had tried to keep clear of the gossip, but he would check up on Pete every few months, look up what he was doing on social media or the magazines. He wasn’t officially linked with anyone, but that didn’t mean anything when it came to Pete.

 

Going back to the box, Patrick pulled the next ornament out and realized he was singing along with Ray Charles. Hanging the pipe-cleaner and popsicle stick sled up that he had made when he was seven, he looked at the picture of the two of them in the snow and sang, voice low and honest…

 

_“All I want for Christmas…is you…”_

 

 

_~//~_

 

 

With the insistent buzzing of a vibrating demon, Patrick’s phone chirped at him from his nightstand. Throwing a hand towards it, his still-asleep brain told him _just throw it, maybe it’ll stop_. But the other part of his brain—the part that was starting to wake up the longer it rang—reminded him it might be important. The clock blazed next to his phone, informing him it was 4:22am, and he groaned as he grabbed the phone and picked up.

 

“H-Hello?” 

 

“May I speak to, uhh—Patrick Stump, please?” He didn’t recognize the person on the other side of the phone, but then again he probably wouldn’t recognize most of his close friends at this time of night.

 

“That’s me.”

 

“Mr. Stump, my name is Rhonda, I’m a nurse at Harbor General Medical Center. You’re listed as the emergency contact for…” There was a pause, “for a Mr. Peter Wentz? Are you able to come get him?”

 

Patrick sat straight up in bed and clutched the phone. “Pete? Is he alright?” His heart was suddenly beating a million miles a minute, and he fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand. 

 

“I can’t tell you anymore until you arrive sir, but you might want to bring him some comfortable clothes if possible.” 

 

“Of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He flipped on the light, wincing as it stabbed out and illuminated his small bedroom. “Where do I go once I get there?”

 

“Come down to the Emergency Room and ask for Rhonda.” 

 

Hanging up, Patrick dropped his phone on the bed and dashed to his closet to rip the first thing he could grab from the hangers. A hundred possible reasons Pete was in the hospital rattled through his brain—he could have done something stupid and lit himself on fire, he could have gotten in an accident riding a llama, knowing Pete. _Oh God_ , his heart seemed to skip a beat as the terrible thought occurred to him, _what if he overdosed again? What if he tried to kill himself, and he thought he couldn’t call me because of everything!?_  

 

Hands shaking, he scooped his phone from the bed, grabbed a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from the pile of laundry he hadn’t gotten around to folding yet, and dashed out.

 

~//~

 

Pete felt stupid. He had been looking down at his radio, skipping over a song he didn’t like on the satellite station, and BAM. Out of nowhere, a drunk driver had crashed into him, rolling his car over and landing him in the hospital. He _hated_ hospitals, dammit. The damage could have been worse…he was pretty sure from the fuzzy bits he remembered from the scene that his car was done for, but the good news was he was going to live to fight another day. He had broken a bone in his foot from the impact, but the doctors had said it had broken cleanly and should heal and not cause him any trouble. He had a concussion, but he supposed that had been to be expected, and a myriad of cuts, bruises, and a truly impressive black eye. All in all, not so bad considering he had ended upside down on the 101 freeway. 

 

“…He suffered a pretty good concussion, so I’d say you should probably stay with him for the next couple days, to make sure he doesn’t have any complications—“ He could hear the voice of his nurse, Rhonda and wondered if she was going to bring him that cup of ice she promised. Her weathered hand pulled back the curtain…

 

“PATRICK?!” 

 

Following Rhonda meekly, looking disheveled as hell and worried as fuck, was his former frontman, ex-boyfriend, and love of his life. 

 

Patrick’s eyes flicked over to Pete, looking him up and down but lingering on his face…but then his attention was back to what the nurse was saying. “What kind of complications should I be looking out for?”

 

“Oh, nausea, vomiting, double vision, dizziness or if he seems to be confused.” She approached the end of his bed and pulled the clipboard from where it was hanging, handing Patrick a slip of paper. “Here’s a prescription for Vicodin, he can take one every four hours for the pain _with food_ , but he shouldn’t need them for too much longer than three days. Don’t let him get the cast wet, and don’t let him put any weight on it. He should be able to get his insurance to cover a wheelchair.” Searching her pockets for something, she made a small huffing sound and grabbed Patrick’s hand and began writing on it and Patrick glanced up at Pete, a bemused look on his face. “Here’s the number to the nurse’s station, call us right away if he shows any of those symptoms or if his foot swells and is pressing against the cast, alright?” 

 

Nodding, she turned her attention to Pete, giving him a good tongue-lashing about what she would do to him if he pushed it too hard or ended up back in here because of his own stupidity. Patrick simply looked at Pete, concern and a faint smile on his face, but thanked her politely when she left. 

 

The room was silent as they stared at each other. Pete felt like his heart was beating out of his chest, like all the blood suddenly decided to just stop moving through his body, and everything had narrowed down to _PatrickIsHerePatrickIsHere._ He was slender but not necessarily skinny—there were still curves to his thighs, his belly, just less of them—but his face looked so different, all the baby fat gone leaving behind high cheekbones and the most beautiful lips in the universe.

 

“I’m guessing you just didn’t think to change your emergency contact in your phone, since I’m the one who made you put one in there, huh?” Patrick’s voice was soft, with no trace of reproach or any of the worn-out surrender that he had heard in it when he had said goodbye. His heart decided to start beating again as Patrick came to sit on the bed, carefully avoiding his cast-ensconced foot. In-between his mind freaking out at him that _Patrick is here_ he noticed what the other was wearing, or rather _how_ he was wearing it, and before he knew it his mouth was moving.

 

“Your shirt’s on backwards.” Patrick looked down and Pete saw his shirt was on not only backwards but inside out, his cardigan was mis-buttoned, and his favorite pair of combat boots were totally unlaced. His best friend’s face was painted with annoyance when his eyes came back to meet his own. 

 

“Well, I got woken up at four in the morning by a call that you were in the emergency room, asshole, so sorry if what I wore wasn’t at the forefront of my mind.” 

 

Feeling exactly like an asshole, Pete shook his head, reaching for Patrick’s hand before stopping and pulling them back to his chest, afraid to mess it up anymore. “No, Patrick, I’m sorry, that’s totally not what I—God I’m such an idiot.” He covered his face with his hands, brain screaming at him _way to go fucktard, criticize his fashion choices right off the bat when you haven’t seen him in two goddamned years!_ But he was cut off from his self-flagellation when soft hands covered his and pulled them away from his bruised and cut head. 

 

“You _are_ an idiot, but I don’t think we can blame that on the concussion.” Patrick was smiling at him, just a little one that tucked up the corners of his mouth, but Pete saw that his eyes were smiling too…they weren’t hard or hurt or angry. Not anymore. “How are you feeling?”

 

Pete opened and closed his mouth several times before he could figure out how to get something to come out. “Umm…like I got hulk-smashed a bit?” Patrick laughed softly, and he was pretty sure it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, especially considering Patrick’s hands were still wrapped around his own.

 

“Do you feel up to getting out of here?” 

 

Pete nodded vigorously. “Fuck yeah, I’d literally kill to be anywhere else.” 

 

Nodding, Patrick stood and looked around. “Shit, I brought you clothes but I left them in the car. I’ll go grab them and have the nurse discharge you.” He gave Pete a patented Patrick Stump Glare and said sternly, “ _Wait here_ until I get back, okay? Like, I expect you to still be under the covers and everything.” 

 

“Yes, Patrick.” Pete folded his hands neatly on his lap in a show of obedience, and his best friend left, leaving him to try to figure out what the fuck was going on.

 

Patrick was here. Patrick had gotten out of bed at 4 in the fucking morning for him. Patrick was speaking to him. Patrick was being _nice_ to him. Patrick was smiling at him. 

 

_HolyFuckingShit._

 

The last two years had felt like three million to Pete. He had fallen into bed with someone almost as soon as Patrick was gone, trying to fill the hole in his heart with a hundred nameless faces. When that hadn’t worked he had hidden in his house, trying to forget that there was anything outside the four echoing walls of his room, spiraling into a deeper depression than he had in years. But finally he had dug himself out, and made an appointment with his counselor after Andy threatened to tell Patrick _and_ his mother. He had slowly figured out how to breathe, how to shower and go get pizza, and—eventually—how to be a self-sufficient adult. 

 

And now Patrick was _here._

 

A short blonde woman in Pooh Bear scrubs brought him discharge papers to sign, and Pete scribbled on them everywhere she pointed. His thoughts were still whirling with what it all meant, what this meant for them, if Patrick was only here as a courtesy and would drop right back out of his life as soon as he had dropped him off at his house…

 

Then he was back, holding a bundle of clothes. “I didn’t think to bring you shoes…” He handed the shirt to Pete and then shook out the sweats. They were the kind with the elastic at the bottom, and Patrick looked up at him. “I don’t know if these are going to fit over your cast…I can try to help you get them on, if you want.” 

 

He had lost count after a million how many times Patrick had seen him completely naked, so pants-less shouldn’t have been a problem. But somehow now it was different…this Patrick was almost a stranger to him, and he couldn’t help the small shake in his voice when he answered. Graciously, Patrick ignored it and helped him into the pants with clinical movements, carefully maneuvering the elastic band over the cast. Pete hastily undid the gown’s ties and pulled on the shirt, wincing as he brought his hand up to put it in the sleeve, but then Patrick’s hands were there, helping guide his arm in and pulling the shirt down. Pete didn’t know what to say, _thanks_ seemed too small…so he just smiled and squeezed Patrick’s arm. 

 

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.” His nurse brought in a wheelchair and Patrick helped him into his car, buckling his seatbelt and thanking Rhonda profusely. She patted his arm and said something that made a blush spring to Patrick’s cheeks, but Pete couldn't quite find the energy to care what it was…he was getting sleepy in the embrace of Patrick’s trusty Pontiac, heaters turned up high and cocooning him in familiar warmth. Patrick got in and shook him slightly, “You going to be okay if I go to the pharmacy and get your meds now?” Pete nodded, already feeling more at peace than he had in _years_. 

 

Patrick murmured a soft _alright, tell me if you start to feel weird. A concussion is no excuse for puking in my car_ and they were off. Pete drifted in and out of sleep, hazily aware of Patrick yammering at the drive-through pharmacy window and fumbling for Pete’s wallet to fish out his driver’s license. Finally, they were set and driving home, the comforting sound of Patrick grumbling about _idiot pharmacists, what do they think I beat someone up just to get narcotics and then brought him with me, that’s ridiculous I have a perfectly legitimate prescription from a perfectly good doctor and both our ID’s—_ and Pete’s heart felt like it would burst with happiness. 

 

The next thing to break through the haze was Patrick shutting his car door and then a moment later, opening Pete’s. “Hey sleepyhead, we’re here. Can you make it inside?” Pete nodded, and let Patrick help him out. He tried to use the crutches, but couldn’t quite seem to make it work, so they settled on him using one crutch on the right and leaning on Patrick on the left. Slowly they worked their way to the door, and something finally percolated into Pete’s sleepy brain, shocking him awake.

 

“Wait, this isn’t my house.” 

 

Patrick shook his head, not stopping until they were standing in front of a strange front door and he was fishing keys from his pocket. “No, it’s mine, it was closer.” He pushed the door open and helped Pete up the small step and into the entryway, throwing the keys into a small bowl and kicking the door shut behind them. Looking around as well as he could while also crutching awkwardly through the small space, Pete let Patrick guide him into the living room. His gaze landed on the Christmas tree, lights glowing softly in the darkened space…and then he saw it. 

 

“Is that…” He stopped cold and Patrick stumbled a bit, turning back to glare at him until he realized what was holding Pete’s attention. He didn’t say anything, but just tried gently to get Pete to move again, but he refused, murmuring softly “I can’t believe you didn’t like…burn it.” 

 

“Why would I do that?” Patrick’s arm tightened around his waist as Pete pulled away to look at him. 

 

“Oh I don’t know, like a million reasons? You want me to like start at the most recent or try to give them to you alphabetically?” 

 

Shaking his head, Patrick sighed. “Can we please at least get you horizontal before we have this talk? I don’t want you to fall.” 

 

He couldn’t quite argue with that logic, though a large part of his brain was currently trying to figure out the last two years in this new light, that Patrick apparently hadn’t spent the whole time hating him, that he actually cared enough to put a stupid ornament with their picture on his _goddamn Christmas tree_ ….

 

Somehow they made it into the bedroom, despite Pete protesting that he could sleep on the couch, and Patrick telling him in a tone that left no room for argument _shut the fuck up, Pete, you just got in a car accident, you’re not sleeping on the couch._ Settling him into the side of the bed he had apparently been occupying himself before he had been woken up by the phone call, Patrick pulled the pillows up and tucked them under Pete’s head. His heart felt like it was going to burst from being surrounded by _Patrick’s sheets and Patrick’s smell and Patrick’s pillows and ohmygodPatrick._ But then he realized that something else felt like it was going to burst. 

 

“Owww.” He winced, looking down at his foot. Patrick left for a moment, and came back with two pillows that looked like they had come from the couch. He propped them under Pete’s foot and the throbbing lessened. “Thanks.” He sighed, afraid of what was coming next, but Patrick just smiled and murmured _I’ll be right back._ True to his word, he came back a minute later, holding a piece of bread with a bit of peanut butter smeared on it and a glass of water. 

 

“Eat this and take your meds, and then we’ll talk.” He handed Pete the bread and set a glass of water and a single white pill on the nightstand, then went into the bathroom. Munching on the bread—Patrick had sprinkled sugar on the peanut butter, just like he liked—he heard the water turn on and off and things being picked up and put down. Just as he was shoving the last bit of bread into his mouth and washing down the pill, Patrick came out wearing his TMNT pajama pants, his shirt still inside out. 

 

As Patrick lowered himself down on the other side of the bed, Pete realized that it was a _large_ bed. Like, California King large, and a thought wormed its way through his head and out before he could really stop it. “Why did you need such a big bed? Were you having like, crazy three-ways or something?” He could see Patrick’s hands clench, and wondered distantly if he would punch him when he was already obviously banged up. It was a dumb thing to say, and he knew it…but he couldn’t help it. The last two years seemed to yawn between them, like the foot or so separating them on the bed was a canyon of hurts and confusion and lonely nights. 

 

“Why the fuck do you have to do that? Are you just trying to make me mad?” Patrick spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s not like it’s any business of yours if I was, _you_ didn’t even let the door shut behind me before you were sleeping with someone else.” Pete opened his mouth to argue, but Patrick cut him off with a sharp gesture. “No, you know what, you’re going listen to me for once. I needed time, I needed to figure out if I could be my own person, and I know that was really hard for you to understand. I know you felt like it was because you had done something, but don’t you _dare_ try to make this about what I may or may not have done in the last two years, because _I wasn’t yours anymore._ ” 

 

He could hear his therapist telling him to take deep breaths and for once, Pete did just that…he pulled five breaths in through his nose and looked down at his hands. The words didn’t hurt as bad as he would have expected, maybe because he knew what Patrick was trying to say. Seemingly-endless therapy sessions had gotten him to realize that it wasn’t that Patrick hated him, he just needed to figure his own shit out and it wasn’t something Pete could help him do. He thought of his therapist’s calm voice telling him _what do you_ actually _want to say?_  

 

“…I know. I’m sorry, I really do know that, and I’m doing a horrible job of showing you.” He rubbed his neck, wincing at how sore it felt. “Can I just start over?” Patrick nodded curtly and Pete took that as all the permission he would get and plunged ahead. 

 

“I get it, why you left me.” He saw Patrick bristle over him calling it that and he waved his hand, trying to ask him for silence. “No, that’s what it was. You left me, but I understand it wasn’t just _me_ you were leaving, it was _everything_ , and I was just a part of that everything you needed to get away from. It’s like…you were an addict and I was alcohol and everything else was drugs and you had to just walk away from it _all_ to get clean.” A wry grin twisted Patrick’s lips at the metaphor, but he didn’t interrupt. Pete swallowed, mentally steeling himself to finish, to say what he knew Patrick needed, no matter how much it hurt. “And…I’m sorry I forgot to change my emergency contact, and I can see if someone can take me home tomorrow or get a taxi, because I want you to have that time. I’m not going to try and convince you to come back to me, or come back to any of it if you don’t want to, because I get it. I _needed you_ to grow up and figure out who I am, but…you needed to be on your own to do that. So just like you gave me what I needed…I’ll give you what you need. No matter how long it takes.”

 

Patrick’s eyes had gotten wider as Pete spoke, and now he was looking at him like a scientist might look at a new species of cave-slime. There was something guarded about his expression but at the same time there was also something incredibly open, something that made him look like he was at peace. He looked down at his hands, rubbing at something on his thumb for a long moment, before his eyes came back up. There was something final in them, something decided and accepted, and the set of his shoulders made Pete’s heart clench despite his earlier bravado. _This is it. He’s going to call your bluff, he’s going to say you should call someone to get you tomorrow because he doesn’t want you here, he doesn’t want you back, he just wants to be free of you…_

 

“What if that’s not what I need anymore?” Pete’s heart skipped a beat at the simple question, his brain wrenching into overdrive as he frantically wondered and tried not to hope that Patrick meant what he thought he meant. “What if I figured out as much as I will on my own, and I wanted it back?” Pete’s mind was racing and he was trying _so hard_ to not jump up and down at the thought of having his band back, having his best friend back to sing with and write music with and…

 

“I mean, I’m sure we can talk the guys into coming back, and I’ve still got my old notebooks and—“

 

With a small smile and a huff, Patrick shook his head. “I’m not talking about the band.” He looked down again at his hands, rubbing that spot on his thumb and Pete could feel his hopes crashing down around him, iron bands of hopelessness and misery wrapping around his heart. _He doesn’t want the band back…_

 

But then Patrick was scooting closer on the big bed, and taking one of Pete’s hands in his own, meshing their fingers together—one hand pale and one hand tanned dark, both with callouses that would probably never go away from playing their instruments—and blue eyes met his. 

 

“I bought this bed because you either sleep like a pillbug or a starfish, and I…was hoping someday you’d sleep in it again…so I wanted to make sure there was room for me, too.” 

 

Everything seemed to stop and all Pete could see was Patrick’s eyes, dark in the dim light but filled with something he never thought he’d see in them again. Something he’d thought he’d lost forever. 

 

_Love._

 

Somehow, Pete was nodding and tears were leaking from his eyes and Patrick was smiling the biggest smile he’d seen in years. Pete pushed himself up on an elbow and grabbed at his best friend, succeeding in fisting a handful of that stupid inside-out t-shirt and pulling him down. Then Patrick’s mouth was on his, his arms were wrapping around Pete, and he felt like _home._

 

**Author's Note:**

> OTP Prompt: Person A and Person B have had a (serious) fall out for a few months now, but Person B has never changed their emergency contact so when they end up in the hospital Person A is called. BONUS: Person A comes running but tries to play it cool (& can’t).
> 
> Link: http://otp-lifestyle.tumblr.com/post/151891503421/otpprompts-person-a-and-person-b-have-had-a
> 
> Title is from "I Slept With Someone in Fall Out Boy and All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me."


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